Add Milk To Get Snap, Crackle, Pour

This story happens when I’m around sixteen or seventeen, working at a fast-food chain with the arches. I’ve since quit, but Cream Man, as we call him, will forever live in my memory.

This older couple comes through our drive-thru nearly every day. At first, I try to accommodate them; their car doesn’t pull up close, they’re older, and I make it easier to hand things out. But it quickly becomes clear that they are the most entitled, abusive customers we have.

Our branch is one of five in town, but the others are twenty minutes away. We’re the smallest and busiest, and we have the worst rating. The kitchen can’t handle the volume, and managers care more about stats than running the store. At lunch and dinner rush, orders pile up. The target is 120 seconds, but 300+ seconds is normal. Sometimes it even hits 600.

And like clockwork, Cream Man and his wife always show up during the worst rush. They order the same thing, scream at the order taker, scream at the payment window, and scream at me.

Every single time, he asks for extra cream on his latte. If it isn’t topped up just right, he throws a tantrum. If there isn’t enough cream, I have to remake it, which takes two minutes for the machine to pour, and then he complains about the wait I just caused by remaking his drink.

Sometimes he demands five packets of sugar dumped into his latte, on top of three pumps of syrup. I remind him it’ll be extremely sweet. He insists anyway. When it inevitably tastes too sweet, he accuses me of sabotaging his order and makes me remake it again.

Other times, if we’re too busy to top off his cream immediately, he sulks, slams his hands on the dashboard, and yells that we’re “incompetent teenagers”. He’ll refuse to park up when asked, even though he understands how bays work, sometimes he does it, sometimes he flat-out refuses, just to prove a point.

Worst of all, he personally blames me for EVERYTHING. Even when I’m not on shift. My best friend once tells me he came through screaming for “the pink-haired girl” to apologize for ruining his order when I wasn’t even in the building that day.

And of course, through all this, he calls me his “creamy girl” with a smug grin every time I add the extra cream for him. I laugh it off but tell him it’s not appropriate. He doesn’t care.

One day, during a brutal 600+ second rush, the Cream Couple arrives. Their food isn’t ready yet, so I ask them to pull into a bay so the next car can be served.

Me: “Could you pull into the bay, please? We’ll bring it right out as soon as it’s ready.”

That’s it. That’s all I say.

Cream Man: *Slamming the dashboard. “No! Every time I come here, I have to wait! My cream melts! And every time I come here, you are working. You’re an awful person!”

He’s bright red, shouting, fists hitting the dash, refusing to move his car. I explain the situation to my manager. She threatens to call the police. Usually that works. 

Not this time.

Something in me snaps. I’ve put up with his abuse for months. I’ve remade his drinks, smiled through the insults, swallowed the “creamy girl” comments, explained parking over and over, and even taken the blame when I wasn’t working. 

This time? No.

Me: “So? Go somewhere else. It’s called problem solving, dude.”

He explodes again, yelling that this is his only option, and that there’s no way I can make him go anywhere else.

Me: “Wanna bet?”

Latte with extra cream in hand, I lean out the window and pour the coffee directly onto the roof and window of his Fiat Panda. He’s parked too close for me to throw it safely, but I realize I can pour it down without burning him. So I do.

Me: “Pull round. Your order will be ready soon.” *Slams window shut.*

And then the adrenaline hits. I burst into tears, exhausted, shaking with anger and dread, and go to confess to my manager what I’ve just done.

Moments later, the police arrive. Cream Man is out of his car now, pounding on the drive-thru window. The cops tell him he’s trespassing and needs to leave. Instead, this seventy-something-year-old man SWINGS AT A POLICE OFFICER.

Seconds later, he’s in the back of the squad car. His frail wife sits in the passenger seat, stunned and latte-less.

Did he deserve to be arrested? Maybe not. Was pouring the latte onto his car the right move? Maybe, maybe not. But after months of tantrums, sugar accusations, parking wars, and being blamed for things I didn’t even do? 

God, it felt good. 

And somehow, I don’t even lose my job.